


by streetlight this dark night

by clumsygyrl (thegirlthatisclumsy)



Category: Bandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover Pairings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-18
Updated: 2007-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-10 17:56:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlthatisclumsy/pseuds/clumsygyrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was not exactly what he expected.</p><p>There wasn’t, he supposed, a real “real” expectation for the end of war. He took a drag from the end of the Muggle cigarette. The end burnt redhot at the tip and mellowed to faint orange. He didn’t bother casting a warming spell. It didn’t matter. </p><p>It wasn’t as if he felt much of anything anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	by streetlight this dark night

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** all true. yup. all of it. except where it’s not. being everything with vowels and consonants. I apologize to HP purists. I am **not** including Book 6 or Book 7. In this universe, they do not exist. Many of the characters that would be dead in the canonical HP verse are not. Many of them are, but for this story the ones I need are not dead.  
> 

_Who will be the first to begin their fall? Or will we become one? Am I the star beneath the stairs? Am I a ghost upon the stage?_  
\- A.F.I., Morningstar

 

 

It was not exactly what he expected.

There wasn’t, he supposed, a real “real” expectation for the end of war. He took a drag from the end of the Muggle cigarette. The end burnt redhot at the tip and mellowed to faint orange. He didn’t bother casting a warming spell. It didn’t matter.

It wasn’t as if he felt much of anything anymore.

.+.

Ron busied himself, shoving clothes into a bag. His entire body ached, bruised and broken that went deeper than tissue and bone. He was tired.

The end of the war was just that. Voldemort dead and gone, almost taking Harry with him. Ron rubbed his shoulder feeling the ghost ache of the curse. It had taken the combined efforts of not only Harry, but of Hermione and himself as well. War was not a clean affair. He tried not to dwell, but Ron knew it would be a long time gone before the images of his friends’ deaths would fade.

There were survivors on both sides. More on theirs than of the Dark, but that did not mean that it had been a success.

Ron snorted and shoved a jumper into his bag.

People had died. People he’d known had died. No, it would never be a success. The list of survivors was long, but the list of dead was longer. He sighed and shook his head as if that would rid him of the thoughts. His hair was longer now, hanging in his eyes. He didn’t bother trying to move it aside. It was almost a comfort.

He laughed to himself.

He wondered if that was why Harry’s hair was long again, shaggier than it had been in years previous. It hid the scar and his eyes.

“Birds of a feather,” Ron muttered accioing a few of his books from the shelf and stowing them in the bag.

The Reconstruction was going smoothly. As smoothly as to be expected. The Ministry was working overlapped days to restore order. Ron thought that it was rather naïve to think that the Ministry would assume that “order” would equal “peace”.

Then again, Ron had come to know that politics, Dark or otherwise, and sense never shared beds. Possibly a few one night stands, but never in a committed relationship of any sort.

They had helped in the Reconstruction. The ones that had survived, the broken trying to fix the broken. It would have been comical had it not been so sad.

The months (and in Harry’s case, the year) long revelry and celebrations were more like a cheaply false sense of security rather than real enjoyment. It was an affirmation of life amid all the dead and dying.

Ron remembered a brief spate of time, just after the war had ended and just as he was surfacing from the haze of not having to be awake and alert at all times, when his mother and father gave him the blessing to just destroy his liver for a good bit of time and “enjoy life”.

And he had.

But now having to face the reality of loss and receiving sad blank looks when the mention of a Bones, Finnegan or even Patil came up was too much for Ron. He’d tried. Really tried for the better part of these past few months to bully through, to put on his brave face and help.

But he was so fucking tired. Tired of this, of his life and what it’d come to amount to, and he was tired of being… himself.

He zipped up his bag, packed the last few remaining things inside it. He waved his wand at it, shrinking the bag and its contents to fit inside the pocket of his heavy coat. He touched the small packet of seemingly official Muggle papers.

He was tired of being Ronald Weasley, war survivor (some would say ‘hero’, but Ron never felt much like one. Still didn’t.) and son of the Weasley clan, near Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon.

He shut the door to his flat, locking it and sliding his wand into his pocket, closing his eyes and disappearing.

There one moment and gone the next.

.+.

 

Muggle life wasn’t as different or as difficult as Ron thought it would be. It was a bit of a pain having to walk everywhere, but it wasn’t as bad as he imagined. He couldn’t Apparate, mainly because he had no idea where he was going to.

All part of the adventure he supposed.

The first week of his life away from “his life” had been interesting. He had always thought that when people said interesting they usually meant something unsavory. But in truth, his week out just as Ron _had_ been interesting.

He’d learned a few Muggle tricks and learned not to start every time he heard a car horn or the sound of a Muggle cell phone. (Not to mention how varied the tones were for each type of cell phone. They were, for the most part, quite lovely ditties.)

He traveled up and around London, his duffle slung on his shoulder, heavier than it appeared. He soon began to favor a certain rolled cigarette, American tobacco and filter. He sat in cafes and watched people – tourists, locals, and everything in between. Ron hadn’t been one for people watching before. Before he had people watched to make sure none of said people were going to kill or maim him or his friends.

It was still hard to walk at night.

Even more difficult to walk by shadows.

Ron was getting better, or so he hoped. He chased away the darkness and the shadows with long nights in pubs indulging in conversation and other activities. He soon learned that the Muggle nightclub scene he’d gleaned from his watching of Hermione’s television and movies was just as lurid as was depicted if one knew where to look. Or one took the time to search out the more adventurous ones.

The brightly colored lights and pounding beats scared away any fears from shadows or ghosts that lingered.

It didn’t hurt that he lifted a shirt and got a leg over more often than not.

.+.

He saw plenty of blokes and ladies with them. He’d sat in enough of the art cafes to notice the whorls of ink edging out from under the sleeves of shirts or more secretive snatches of colorwork from the insides of wrists. It took Ron a fair bit of time to reconcile the beautiful (and sometimes horribly comical) lines and colors with the lasting imprint of images and ideas of what he thought tattoos were.

There were dark marks in the things he’d observed, scary imagery and even scarier text. But nothing like the Dark Mark. Nothing that held the same intensity. Perhaps it was because there was no magic (dark or otherwise) imbuing the skulls or snakes or combination thereof with anything more than bad decisions.

The walk into the shop and the visit lasted the better part of an hour.

He smoked his cigarette down to the filter, tracing the symbol on the inside of his wrist that he knew was under the collection of gauze and tape. It was a simple design. Nothing fancy.

They had never been fancy. Simply them.

He peeled the covering back and let the moon and the stars see the 3 for what it was.

Simple and existing. Hurting and bleeding, but there.

Ron knew that it would heal soon. But the mark would be there forever.

.+.

Ron literally stumbled into the event.

He’d spent the night nursing his way through a bit of a bender. He remembered blond hair and the feel of hard muscle under him. He thought maybe the bloke’s name was Mitchell or Mark. He couldn’t be sure. It’d been nice.

The morning had dawned and he’d stumbled back to the small hotel room he’d rented for the night. Sitting down to watch the sun climb higher into the sky, made him remember a morning similar to it. That morning the bed hadn’t been his either. It’d been Hermione’s, left with Hermione’s sweet scent and the memories of nights spent in it with her. Nights that were a respite from the constant fighting and the inevitably of one or both of them not returning later.

He’d been standing at the foot of the bed pulling on his t-shirt, managing to tangle his arms in the holes.

“I love you, Ron.”

Ron had grinned and leaned in for the kiss he knew he was going to get. “I know.”

There was no kiss. She sat there smiling at him sadly. “I love you, but you don’t love me. Frankly, I don’t love you in that way either.”

Ron stopped blinking at her. “’Mione?”

Hermione stood, brushing the nonexistent wrinkles from her skirt. “You, my dear lovely wholly wonderful Ron, are gay. Maybe you’re bisexual. Maybe, but I doubt it. But on the side wherein you like boys more than girls.” She said steadily, her voice gaining strength the closer she stepped up to him.

Each one of those words making him quieter, silencing up his words. He’d deny it, but he couldn’t very well discount the times he’d had, they’d had with other boys.

“I’ve been your girl since we were.” Hermione laughed and didn’t finish. She knew that he knew how longed they’d been together. She took his hands into his. “Now you’ll probably get angry. Stomp off and do something stupid, but I’m not doing this to hurt you. We… we’ve been doing this dance for years. Having each other to hold back the demons. The fear and the scariness of what could be.” She gave him a funny little smile. Ron thought he knew all of Hermione’s smile, but he didn’t know this one.

“I…”

Hermione went up on tiptoe and kissed Ron softly. “I will always, always be your ‘Mione, but we can’t do this anymore. I won’t be your excuse anymore. I’ve got to find my own way out of this mess and so do you. No more kid’s stuff. We’ve got to grow up.”

Ron watched her leave.

That night had been the final battle. They’d all ended up at St. Mungo’s, hurt and broken. Ron had acquired curse scars on his neck and shoulder trying to get to Harry and Hermione. He remembered bits and pieces after that, fighting to fight and make sure that the people he loved would survive. He wasn’t a hero, but he was selfish.

He wanted the ones he loved would see the end. To finish it with him and not be finished by it.

He stood with them facing the smoldering remnants of the Dark Lord.

It was Harry who took his hand and not Hermione.

That meant the ending more than her words. He’d grown up. In that moment, that space of time they had to.

.+.

Ron looked around at the dark room, lit with the faint glow of cigarette ends and the dim dingy bulbs (he still had no idea why they were called that). He ordered a pint and wandered around to the side of the stage. His bag strap was slung across his chest to avoid snagging or being snagged.

The pint was warming his stomach, mostly empty. He’d have to pick up some work soon. He’d managed without too much hassle to get day work doing something. He didn’t want to tap into the Muggle banking system that Hermione had him get. “You never know, Ron.” She’d done it as a contingency plan. Something to fall back on if everything they’d done had failed.

The show, whatever it was, was going to start soon if the crowd was any indication.

“Budge over, willya?”

Ron looked up and smiled at the bloke. Too many piercings and a rather lot of eye make up on his face. Not Ron’s usual sort, but a nice bit to look at he’d gather from the bits he could see. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t leave. Just wanted to settle in before the main act.” The guy took a sip and nodded to the stage. “Fans of them?”

Ron shrugged. “Don’t know them. Came in for a pint. Knew the bloke at the door and he let me in.” He didn’t mention that he knew the bloke at the door rather intimately, having spent a majority of time the other night shagging him into the mattress. Pleasant guy. Terry something or other. Fantastic ass and made a rather bracing cup of tea in the morning.

“Oh. From the States. Goth punk rock. Brilliant lyrics. Dishy pieces too.”

Ron laughed and held out his hand. “Ron.”

“Philip,” he said switching the glass from one hand to the other to shake Ron’s hand. “Oh shiet, ‘ve gone and left my phone in the loo.” Philip said grimacing and standing.

Ron didn’t even have time to say goodbye. He finished the pint, sliding the glass down. Moving through the crowd again, he wandered toward the front of the stage. “Oy, hey. Watch it!” He said darting forward and catching a rather heavy metal box as it tumbled off the platform. “Urgh!” He managed as the breath left his chest.

“Oh fuck. Sorry. Sorry, shit. Are you okay?”

“’s well as can be expected,” Ron said shifting the box thing back onto the stage. He rubbed a hand over his chest.

“Shit, man. Sorry. I didn’t even see the amp. I was just trying to figure out why I didn’t have any power going to the soundboard.” The guy smiled, grimaced really, and hopped off the platform.

Ron wasn’t surprised that he was taller than him. It didn’t stop him from taking a small step back and to the side. Old habits died hard. His hand, he knew without thinking too hard, was resting at his side, fingers curled loosely near his wand. “Amp?”

“Yeah, that big metal paperweight you caught. Sound comes out of it. Amplifier?” He said looking up at Ron. “Bob, Bob Bryar.” He held out a hand.

Ron took it and shook it and looked at it then at Bob. “Ron… Weasley.”

“Weasley?” Bob smirked. “Man, you English have got some odd names.”

“Says the man named after a bush.” Ron said dropping his hand, but smiling.

“Huh, never heard of a Bob bush before.” Bob bent down and adjusted some cords.

Ron laughed trying to ogle without being too obvious. “Well, we English have odd names and odd flora.”

“Gotta remember that.” Bob said straightening after plugging one of the metal prongs into one of the sockets.

Ron watched with interest.

“Who the hell is this and why is he back here?”

Bob glanced up, winking at Ron. “Hey, Brian.”

Brian, Ron assumed, glared at him. “I repeat, who the hell are you and why are you back here?”

“I carried an amp.” Ron said dryly.

“Actually he caught one to the chest.” Bob corrected, shoving his hands into his pockets. “So, he risked thoracic injury and saved Frankie’s amp. Be nice and don’t give him angry manager face, Schechter.”

Brian took the glare down a half notch. “Thanks.”

Ron inclined his head. “Don’t mention it.”

“Yo, Bob. Bobby. Bobbob.”

Bob rolled his eyes and backed up a step. It looked to Ron as though he were bracing for an impact. Then there was a blur of white and black and Ron had the distinct impression of barely controlled energy and sound. “Fuck. Geroffme, Iero.” Bob grunted.

“Frankie, do not injure the sound guy.” Brian said in a way that made Ron think that he said it often.

Frankie pinched and then smacked Bob’s cheek lightly. “You’re going to miss me when you leave us, Robert. Who’s this guy? What’s he doing here?”

“I carried an amp.” Ron said watching the Frankie slide off Bob’s back and down to the ground.

“And the day isn’t complete without a Dirty Dancing reference,” Frank said grinning. “Beer me, Schechter.”

“No.” Brian said.

Bob gestured Ron over. “So, your first time here?”

Ron nodded. “Yeh. Well, no. Sort of.” He frowned. He’d seen the inside of the coat room and the bathroom with Terry, but not of this room really.

Bob eyed Ron. “Okay, kid. First time to a show?” He ventured.

Ron smiled and nodded. “Yes.”

“Ah,” Bob said and patted Ron’s arm. “Cool. Just stick with me. You’ll be okay. Unless you want to join the masses in the pit. Usually can see the show better from my seat. Hear better too.”

Ron had no idea what the odd tone in Bob’s voice meant, but he went with it. He had nothing to worry about, not really. Being behind the board with the many buttons and dials was odd. It was a big table with little pieces of metal that made the sound come through louder, deeper, or from different areas. “Brilliant,” Ron said when Bob was finally satisfied.

“Just wait till they start to play.” Bob lit a cigarette and grinned around it.

Ron was beginning to like the look of that.

.+.

The job sort of fell into his lap.

Gerard had blinked up at him blearily and grinned, drunken, maniacal, but still rather adorable Ron found. He patted Gerard’s head, hair sticking to his palm from a mixture of sweat and. And well, Ron hadn’t wanted to really know. “Hullo.”

“Hullo,” Gerard parroted back, shirt sticking to his chest and flushed from exertion and drink. “You’re Bob’s new friend.”

Ron helped Gerard to a sitting up position. “I suppose I am.”

“Good. That Bob needs friends.” Gerard slurred and patted Ron’s cheek hard, hand damp with drink and sweat and things Ron still did not want to think about.

“Hey.”

Ron craned his neck up and backward. He winced a bit when Brian kicked his duffle under the table. “Brian.” He said reaching for his pint and realizing that it’d been absconded. Gerard was yelling to his brother about Awesome British Beer! and near stumbling into Bob who was wrapping cords.

“I saw you helping Bob earlier. You looking for a job?” Brian asked. “Pay’s shit, but you looked like you were enjoying yourself. Looks like you need somewhere to be too.”

Ron eyed Brian. Young, tattooed and pierced. Not so different looking than most Ron had seen that night of the bands and fans alike. There was, however, a distinct difference of solemnity and determination. “I look like I need somewhere to be?”

Brian nudged Ron’s bag with the toe of his boot. “Can’t pay much. But you’ll get plenty of experience. Studying under this crew is worth a lot.”

Ron turned his head catching sight of Gerard pinwheeling back and Frank shoving him in the other direction, miraculously setting him to rights. “I can’t argue that I could use the work.” The thought of simply picking up and leaving was appealing.

“So?”

It wasn’t running away to the circus, but it was close.

“Sure.”

.+.

It wasn’t hard work.

But it was difficult.

Ron lost count the number of times he’d had to save Gerard or various other members of the band from injuring or killing themselves before, during, or after a show. It was miraculous at how long that they’d survived. He shook his head, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt and shoving more equipment into the van.

It had, at any rate, had helped him improve his wandless magic.

The days had blended together after that first night and Ron was picking things up quickly. Bob had been so impressed he’d shared his cigarettes. Ron tried to hand him some money for it, but had gotten a shove on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, kid.”

Ron rather fancied watching Bob walk away.

They all looked tired, felt tired. They had been traveling for two days straight. In the short amount of time, Ron had gotten to know most of the crew and band. Not a hard feat considering that the band and crew lived shoulder to sweaty shoulder. Ron had woken up that morning curled into an oddly shaped S curve around equipment and Frank.

It wasn’t the work that was making him touchy. He liked what he was doing. It wasn’t hard so much as it was a distraction. He knew what the cold meant, what it signified. He didn’t have to check the calendar to know.

“Last night of tour,” Cortez said snapping a bottlecap again his fingertips. Ron watched it ricochet from the wall and flick against the back of Ray’s head, lost in the cloud of hair.

“Is it now?” Ron asked, knowing full well it was. They were somewhere near Glastonbury. He thought. He wasn’t sure. The days and the nights had blurred together so much that Ron didn’t know if they were coming, going or staying.

“Yeah,” Cortez said flicking another cap at him before walking away. It was the easy annoying camaraderie Ron had missed. It was like being in some twisted version of school again. He snorted out a quiet laugh looking around at the piles of dirty clothing and even dirtier musicians. It was just like school with less cleanliness. “Some of us were going to go out. I know a guy. We were going to get some work done.”

Ron parsed together that train of thought. “Oh. Tattooing.”

Matt grinned and nodded. “Yeah. You in?”

Ron paused and then nodded. “Yeah. ‘m in.”

.+.

Ron spent his day running around rescuing and finding band members. He had no real idea what exactly his job was, but whatever the parameters were, he was good at it.

“You are eerily good at that,” Brian had set when Ron carried Frank back, fireman carried and then dumped onto a bench.

“Do not provoke Germans.” Ron said rolling his eyes and then looked back at Brian. “Sorry?”

“You’re good at that.” Brian said again and sat, arms crossed.

Ron watched the color and black flex on his forearms. Brian Schechter was really nice to look at. Scary, but nice to look at. Not really his type, but it didn’t negate the fact that Brian was a nice bit of it. “Not hard. He left me breadcrumbs,” Ron said and easily ducked the remnants of whatever toasted pastry Frankie had in his hand.

“I better be Hansel,” Frankie said licking strawberry filling from his fingers.

Brian gave Ron another look then nodded. “Good.”

Ron looked up when Cortez called for him. “Er, yes. Good.”

Brian Schechter was a nice bit of arse to look at, but odd.

.+.

That night shouldn’t have been any different than any other. It shouldn’t have been, but Ron knew what day it was. The end of tour festivities had carried over from their last show to the small hotel room that they’d managed to get. Ron had escaped the brewing argument between Ray and Matt the drummer. Ron hadn’t bothered to remember the last name. Ron didn’t think Matt was worth much the effort.

Ron was reminded of Goyle when he looked at Matt. A sense of entitlement where there was no real basis for it. He played decently enough from what Ron had seen, but he’d heard better. He spent some Muggle money on some cds and paid attention. Matt was decent, but lazy.

That was the key as far as Ron could tell. Ron had a certain disdain for laziness now. In war, laziness and ineptitude and disregard for your team could get one killed. Or perhaps, Ron just thought Matt was an ungrateful arsehole.

The revelries were well and good but Ron needed away from the inevitable screaming match between Matt and Ray. Cortez shot him a look as he pushed by the wall of bodies toward the door. “We still on for tonight?”

“Tattoos.” Ron said remembering Cortez’s gleeful expression and walking around half naked planning out a spot for the new ink.

Cortez smirked and pinched Ron’s cheek. “Going to get to see you squirm, man.”

Ron nodded, fingers rubbing over the symbol he knew was over his wrist. It steadied him a bit. The night felt like it was pressing in against him. He wanted, needed out. “Ye’h. Just goin’ out. Smoke.” The words were carefully chosen, sparse. Somewhere there was a clock chiming, ticking away to tell him that he’d survived another year.

They’d survived another year.

He tried not to think about just how angry they were at him for leaving. He hoped they understood. Hermione probably understood more than Harry. Harry would see it as another person leaving him.

And he wasn’t wrong.

He hoped that they wouldn’t be angry for leaving the damn Continent. Not that they’d know.

Ron struck the match against the cold stone and pressed his back against the rough hewn wall, sliding down and letting the building take his weight. The night was cool, not unlike what it should be. Yet all Ron remembered from that night was fear, anger, and adrenaline. The combination made him sweat, prickled at his eyes and the wood of his wand slip in his hand.

He flicked ash from the tip of his cigarette.

His wand was tucked against his thigh, a nifty little band that he’d snitched off Harry. He just had to cut a hole into the pocket of his trousers and it was well within reach. It was a comfort to feel the familiar weight of it against his body.

“Was wondering where you’d gone off to.”

Ron smiled into the dark and saw Bob smile back. “Had to get away from,” he waved a hand back at the hotel.

Bob grimaced and crouched down next to Ron, wandside and close enough that Ron could feel the beating of heat from Bob’s body. "Yeah, well." Bob rubbed the back of his knuckles against his thigh. Ron heard the soft whiskerscratch sound of skin against denim, but he didn't turn his head.

"Didn't kill him, did you?" Ron asked blowing out a stream of smoke.

"Not tonight." Bob said and snagged the lighter from Ron's hand and lit his own cigarette. "Too many witnesses."

Ron nodded, head tipped back against the wall. He could feel the itch of the anniversary under his skin. He wondered at times if that wasn't just a final curse from the Dark Lord. Hermione had said it was psychosomatic. No real surprise. Voldemort was a rather large body of crazy. Hermione then had said Ron never translated Latin correctly.

Ron always thought in that case he'd done just fine.

"Heard you signed on to head back to the States with them," Bob said after a moment of silence. They were shoulder to shoulder now, Bob sitting close.

Ron flicked more ash to the ground in the small space between them. It glowed red for a moment then faded into the darkness. "Yeah. Apparently they need me."

Bob didn't comment. There were a few long moments of silence, just the deep even breathing between the two of them and the soft hush of exhale mingled with the smell of smoke and sweet tobacco. It was easy and companionable between them. Ron had no idea if it was his own thinking that added the tension or the fact that he knew that this was possibly the last time he'd have a moment like this with Bob.

He'd grown accustomed to the man's face.

Ron's nose twitched memorizing the particularly blend of soap, smoke, and spice that marked Bob as Bob.

“Have you-,” Bob started but the words and smoke were cut off. Ron pressed his mouth in soft against them. There was a brief moment of selfish wanting on Ron’s part, something to remember this time, this place where he was simply Ron talking to and having a kiss with someone he liked as another real person.

Bob’s mouth softened for a split second before he pulled back. “Er.”

Ron licked his lower lip and stared up at the sky. “Beautiful night.”

“What?”

“Beautiful night,” Ron said looking up, the itch under his skin calmed.

Bob stood up, brushing his hands against his thighs. “I. Yeah, I should go. Uh, have fun, kid. Be careful.” He licked his lips and Ron watched the motion with a faint little smile.

“I will. You do the same.” Ron tipped his head back against the stone. “You should keep up with the drums too.”

There was a scraping of rubber sole against the paved walkway. “What?”

Ron laughed a little and kept his eyes closed. “You. I’ve watched you. You’re good from my meager estimations. Better’n him.”

“Yeah, well. I care,” Bob said and he looked up at the sky as if trying to figure out what was so interesting about the moon and stars.

“I know. So you should.” Ron said opening his eyes again to focus on Bob, silhouetted against the night sky.

Bob fidgeted and looked at Ron then away, even in the dim light Ron could see the red color his neck. “Yeah, sure.”

“Good.” Ron said feeling the ease of being here in this place, away from the meaning of the day.

Bob opened his mouth and then looked hard at Ron, shaking his head a little with a laugh. “I gotta go.”

Ron nodded and licked his lips, echoing Bob in yet another way. He felt the small pleasure of seeing Bob watch his tongue. “So you said.” He stood up, cigarette burnt down to the filter now.

Bob nodded and it was his turn to take up Ron’s space. He made a frustrated sound, and Ron shouldn’t have smiled, but he did. The kiss was more, harder and demanding.

Desperate.

Ron let Bob push him against the wall, enjoying the moment.

“Oh, uhm. I can come back.”

Bob pulled back, mouth wet and Ron wanted nothing more than to pull Bob back for another kiss. He didn’t. Bob separated, mumbled a ‘goodbye, kid’ and brushed past Mikey.

Mikey made a face and frowned. “God, ‘m sorry, Wheez.”

The nickname and his place in with these people were familiar now. Ron looked at the pale shadow of Bob as he was swallowed up by the dark of the hotel. “Me too, Mikey.” He smiled and slung an arm around Mikey’s shoulders. “I heard that Cortez was takin’ us blokes out to get scarred with pigments.”

Mikey blinked, pushed his glasses up with a tense finger. “You sure you’re okay?”

Ron felt the cool sharp breeze against his cheek, ruffling his hair from the back of his neck. “Tonight, Mikey. Tonight I am.”

+++++

The tattoo had hurt more this time. Ron looked down at the words and laughed to himself.

"What does that mean?" Mikey had peered, mouthing the words.

"It's Latin," Ron had said patting Mikey's shoulder.

"It's cool. The word starts and it's the beginning and end of the other." Mikey said and then wandered away to watch Cortez get tattooed, laughing at the look on his face.

_Oblivate Evanesco. oblivatevanesc. evanescoblivat._

Ron twisted his wrist watching the words flex and move with his skin, in his skin now, around the bone. A slow cycle of words, a circle of letters comprising of what Ron had become. "To forget. To disappear." He said to himself and listened to the buzz of needles against skin.

It didn’t hurt as much as he thought it would.

Funny that.

+++++

Ron dropped the postcard into the bin as they left the hotel.

_there are times when a ~~boy~~ person has to leave to find out what’s on the other side. to find out who they’re meant to really be and not what they’re becoming. be safe. –r_

He hoped that it would find Hermione in good spirits.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

fin.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was conceived during the summer, fleshed out during the fall, and finally posted. this is only the first part of many. but it works as a stand alone. i hope. eta-- god, i'm a total lameface. many many thanks to [](http://lovelypoet.livejournal.com/profile)[**lovelypoet**](http://lovelypoet.livejournal.com/) for helping me craft this 'verse and for [](http://eleanor-lavish.livejournal.com/profile)[**eleanor_lavish**](http://eleanor-lavish.livejournal.com/)'s read through and patience.


End file.
